


Had I but World Enough and Time

by Thranduil_is_a_bitchking



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Minor Character Death, Napoloen has feelings, Porn With Plot, Some angst, Too spoopy for me, Vampires, but nothing major, like a teensy amount, not the tv show, oh no
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking/pseuds/Thranduil_is_a_bitchking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya Kuryakin has finally found himself. He finally feels like he belongs somewhere. He has a home, and friends, and people he can call family. </p>
<p>A seemingly meaningless accident in 1736 is the lynchpin, and Illya's life could all come crashing down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Man from UNCLE fic! Ah, I'm excited for this one! I fell in love with the TV series, David McCallum is life, and then had a breif affair with the film. My love for Armie Hammer as Illya is obvious, as is my love for Gaby.  
> Anyways, this fic is full of supernatural elements, mainly vampirism, because why not? 
> 
> This is a prologue, to put my feelers out. It's deliberately open ended, and vague, but I hope it'll wet your appetites and get you all intrigued!
> 
> As usual,  
> Enjoy!

_Kiev, 1736_

Their carriage rattled along the icy road, the steady clip, clop of the horses' hooves lulling. Around them, snow drifted down from the sky, grey and heavy with clouds. The driver hummed to himself from within his layers of fur, gloved hands and pale blue eyes his only visible features. Inside the carriage, a young boy fussed with his own gloves, black and leather. His bottom lip snagged between white teeth, his breath huffed out in a puff of steam. He sniffed, and stuffed his hands in his pockets as his parents looked on.

'Are we nearly there yet?'

A woman looked to the heavens for strength, her arms holding a gurgling baby. Her husband chuckled beside her, holding a toy out to their infant daughter. 

'We will get there when we get there.' 

Their son huffed. He turned his blue eyes to the window, watched the whited world outside roll by. His blond hair fell in front of his face, and he reached up to brush it away. He wished his hair could be more like his mother's, pale blond and straight. Instead, it was a dirty gold, darkened by his father's input, he supposed. It was fluffy, and hard to control. It bothered him when he would play, and he'd find himself always brushing it back. Still, his mother said it was nice, and Miss Anna, his governess, would always compliment his hair.

'Papa, how long left?'

The boy's father chuckled, pulled open the glass window. Cold air flooded the carriage, and the boy scowled. 'Alexander,' called the father to the driver, 'how long do you estimate we have left?'

The boy leaned forward to peer out of his closed window. Alexander was leaning dangerously to the left in order to be heard, a move he would in no way call safe. 

'About half an hour, sir.' 

The father nodded and thanked him, slid the window shut again with a click. He turned back to his son, a smile on his face. 'See, not long at all.'

The boy nodded, but the scowl remained. 'I don't understand why we had to leave Moscow.'

The mother sighed. 'Kiev is nice.'

'I have no friends there, Mama.'

'You will make new ones,' said the father. The boy scowled harder, fighting back treacherous tears. 

'I do not want _new_ friends, Papa. I want my friends in _Moscow_.'

Suddenly, the horses whinnied, and Alexander cried out. An almighty bang sounded out, and the boy's world exploded into white, then faded into black. He felt himself fall, far and fast. Then, he collided with something hard. A crack and a burst of pain, and he fell into a heap on the floor.

Cold snow against pale skin, the boy blinked past the darkness of his vision to see the carriage, overturned and smoking. His mother's hand lay buried in snow and blood, his father's eyes open but seeing none of the forest around him. Alexander lay off to the side, head cracked on a stone. The horses lay whining in pain, eyes wild and glassy. A baby cried from within the wreckage. The boy tried to drag himself forwards, towards the sound, but that, eventually, fell silent. 

The boy cried, screamed his grief and his agony. His world was gone. He had nothing. 

He whimpered, and slipped into the welcoming darkness.


	2. Mission: Doable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may or may not be implying that Kingsmen is UNCLE's UK branch. If you haven't seen Kingsmen, it doesn't matter at all. 
> 
> This is just a short intro, really. To set up my universe :)
> 
> As Always,  
> Enjoy!

_New York, 1965_

'Good morning, gentlemen.' 

Napoleon flashed a toothy smile at their boss, Alexander Waverly, as he slid into a leather chair. Illya, from his position by the door, jerked his chin in acknowledgment. Waverly glanced in his direction, but said nothing further to him. 

'First off,' he began, folding his hands in front of him on the desk, 'I want to congratulate you both on another successful mission. So, well done.'

Napoleon smiled. 'Thank you, sir.'

Waverly acknowledged Napoleon with a small, brief upturn of his lips. 'Now, on to more pressing matters. As you are well aware, section one here at UNCLE deals with more than your average, run of the mill situations.' Both Illya and Napoleon nodded. 'Solo, I know you're used to, ah, hunting, from your days at the CIA. Kuryakin may be lacking in specific training in that regard, but I'm sure you had something similar in the KGB?'

Illya nodded once. Waverly, satisfied, continued.

'There's a coven in London, practicers of dark magic.'

'Witches, sir?' Came Napoloen's voice.

'Yes,' said Waverly. 'Now, normally our men there are more than capable, but they've been spread rather thin lately. You've been requested by Arthur.'

'These Necromancers, they have said what their goal is?' Illya, this time. He was still lingering by the door, but his posture had relaxed somewhat. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed across his chest.

Waverly shook his head. 'They haven't made any explicit demands, and we've been unable to determine their intent. They've been collecting artefacts, dangerous and powerful ones, worldwide for the past few months.'

'When you say _collecting_ ,' began Napoleon. Waverly nodded. 

'I mean stealing, yes. It's partly why you're here, Solo.'

Napoleon paused for a moment. 'If we can find their fence,'

'Then we can track the transaction back to them,' said Illya, finishing his partner's suggestion. Napoleon nodded in agreement. Waverly glanced between the two, a small smile crinkling his eyes. 

'Exactly,' he said. 'You leave this evening, I'll give you the rest of the day off to prepare. Miss Teller will meet you at the airport. You'll get a full briefing when you get there.'

The two agents nodded. Illya pushed himself off of the wall as Napoloen stood. The American exited first, and held the door open for Illya, who thanked him quietly. Waverly's secretary stopped them for a moment on their way out, a woman of fae descent. Her white wings fluttered as she flagged them down, her olive skin almost glowing. She held files in her arms, and gestured for the two of them to take one. The floral tattoos on her skin, silver and metallic, shimmered. 

'What's this, Rosie?' Asked Napoleon, opening the file he'd just taken from her.

'Change in policy,' Rosana smiled. 'Nothing major, though. A few health and safety tweaks, that's all. There's a lunar calendar in there as well. Waverly wants everyone to be aware of the cycle.'

Napoleon nodded. Illya took a file from her. 

'How is your wife?' He asked, eyes briefly scanning the cover. Rosana immediately perked up, wings fluttering happily.

'She's doing well Illya, actually. Thank you for asking.'

Illya offered her a smile. 

'Good luck on your mission,' Rosana said, and then she was on her way. Napoleon shot Illya a look, and then they, too, were on their way. They weaved their way through the desks in the bullpen, agents and pouring over paperwork in the harsh, white light of the overhead lamps. Napoleon reached out, pushed the button for the elevator. Illya flicked absently through the file in his hands while they waited, half listening to Napoleon talk about how Illya shouldn't be so trusting.

'I mean, it's fine when they're fae or whatever, but you need to be more careful, Peril.' 

The elevator doors opened with a loud ding, and Illya stepped in. Napoleon joined him. 

'I mean, what if she were a vampire? Not that she could be. Waverly would obviously never let one of those _creatures_ work here.'

'Obviously,' muttered Illya, leaning over to press a button. The doors rumbled shut and the elevator whirred to life. Napoleon continued talking.

'How they have any rights is beyond me. I mean, they're _monsters_.'

Illya hummed noncommittally and turned a page in the file. The small swoosh of air buffeted the suddenly heavy air. There was a brief, blessed silence. It lasted all of two seconds, and Napoleon shot a grin at his partner.

'So, Peril,' he said. Illya sighed. 'London.'

'Yes,' was all Illya said. Napoleon rocked forwards onto his toes, eyes bright. Illya resigned himself to his fate, and gave a reluctant 'what?'

'The art, the music!' Exclaimed Napoleon. 'The fashion. Shakespeare, the National Gallery!'

Illya gave a small hum. Some of the light drained from Napoleon's eyes. 

'What?' Asked Napoleon. Illya continued to read the file. Napoleon heaved out a sigh of realisation. 'I've said something wrong again, haven't I?'

Illya said nothing.

'Tell me what I said that offended you, and I promise I won't do it again,' said Napoleon, his voice a strange mix of sarcasm and honesty. His blue eyes shone with sincerity, despite the lilt to his tone. Illya snapped the file closed. Just as he was beginning to think the ride down was taking far too long, the doors pinged open. He stepped out, and Napoleon trailed behind him, taking two steps to Illya's one in an attempt to catch up. 

'Peril, _please_ ,' said Napoleon, voice strained and begging. 'Tell me what I said, I'm _sorry_!'

Illya drew to an abrupt halt, and Napoleon very nearly crashed into his back. The American's hair was very slightly falling out of its coif, and his eyes were wide. Illya's anger melted almost against his will. 

'Is nothing, Cowboy. Don't worry,' he smiled. Napoleon looked unconvinced, but let it go. His lips were pursed in a frown, his dark eyebrows pulled in tight over his sapphire eyes. As soon as the look had come, it disappeared, and Napoelon's usual, lascivious grin took its place. He slung an arm over Illya's shoulders, ignoring the Russian's growled protest, and led him out of the building and into the warm, sunny afternoon air.

'Come on, Peril. We've a plane to catch!'


	3. The Airport Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! No worries folks, I've not died! I've just started uni, so finding time to write has been hard! But, in honour of Halloween, I'm posting two chapters of the supernaturally themed fic! 
> 
> Have a spooktacular Halloween, and as always,  
> Enjoy!

_Somewhere over the Atlantic_

The steady whirr of the engines echoed loud in the cabin. Recycled air, cold and dry, filled the cylindrical death trap. Bits of the plane creaked and clicked with vibrations, rattling the compartment. Despite the combined humming, Napoleon slept peacefully in his seat, both his shoulder and his thigh pressed against Illya's. 

Illya leaned his head against the plastic wall. He hated planes with a passion, but had learnt to control his fear many years ago. His eyes wandered around the cabin, from the smiling stewardess to the portly gentleman drinking whiskey out of a plastic cup. Someone three rows behind him was snoring nasally while, somewhere further back, a baby wailed. Every now and then, a small ding would sound out, soft but insistent. Napoleon slept on soundly. Illya could hear the soft sounds of his breathing, the steady pulsing of his heart. His head, a warm weight on Illya's cold shoulder, remained so despite Illya's early, futile attempts at shrugging him off. 

The plane dropped suddenly, sending Illya's stomach to somewhere in his chest. He shifted, swallowed past the strange feeling in his throat, and gripped the armrest tightly. Napoloen made a small sound of discomfort, but otherwise showed no reaction. The baby's wails intensified, and the mother set off on a course around the plane, rocking the baby in her arms. She gave Illya an apologetic smile as she past, and Illya smiled, briefly, back. 

Illya's wandering gaze caught Gaby's. Sat in the row opposite them, she smiled at him. Then, she happily returned to chatting with the young woman she was seated beside, her body angled so that she could rest her back in the corner created by the wall and the seat. She rolled a ball of yellow light easily in her hands, and the woman seated beside her talked animatedly about plasma, from what Illya could understand. He shrugged to himself. He did not pretend to know half of what Gaby spoke of when she talked about magic. Illya had no special affinity for it himself, and neither, to his knowledge, did Napoloen. Illya watched for a moment as the ball of light shifted and pulled along with its conjurer's mood. He smiled to himself and looked away, only to wince at the crack of protest his neck gave at the movement.

After eight hours of immobility, Illya's muscles had become cramped and uneasy. He couldn't change positions, thanks to Napoleon, so he suffered silently. 

A stewardess approached, her voice growing louder as she pushed her cart down the plane. Her question remained the same, and her delivery remained smiley. Not one syllable was uttered with a different inflection. She sounded Irish, to Illya's ears.

'Any drinks or snacks?' She asked Illya, her smile full, if tired, on her red-painted lips. Her unnaturally blue eyes landed on Napoleon, and she gave a small chuckle.

'Water, please,' said Illya, tapering his accent. The woman smiled, and brushed back a stray lock of blonde hair with pale fingers to reveal a pointed ear. Ah, thought Illya. A Nymph. They were pretty, usually unearthly so. They were happy by nature, and chatty. Illya quite liked them.

While the woman searched for a cup, Illya took the time to study the contents of the cart. It was full of drinks, alcoholic or otherwise, for every possible type of person, from human to goblin. There were sugary, fizzy drinks for children and tricksters, and herbal teas for fae. 

Illya awkwardly reached over a sleeping Napoleon to give the nymph a handful of change. She took it with a smile, and opened a drawer. Illya saw the long, pointed stake and the cluster of silver bullets there. His entire body stiffened, and Napoleon made a small sound of displeasure at his pillow's discontent. Illya forced himself to relax, but did not relinquish his tight grip on the metal armrest. He ran his tongue, briefly, over his white canines, before taking the plastic cup and bottle from her outstretched hands. Illya thanked her, and she moved on. Cracking the lid open, he took a sip of the cold, bitter, manufactured water. It slid down his throat like ice.

Bottle held in a lax grip, Illya yawned, and turned his gaze to the darkness outside his window. The dim lighting of the cabin softened his reflection, and allowed him to lose himself in the steady flashing of the light mounted to the wingtip. Illya had left it too late to sleep, really. They had maybe half an hour until the plane landed at Heathrow. In that time, a few people wandered about, pacing through the rows of seats as if the aisles were pavements or the lanes of a racetrack. Illya watched them enviously. 

A soft ding signalled the plane's decent. People returned to their seats, and clicked on their seat belts. Napoleon blinked awake, noted his position and sat up with an apologetic smile. Colour rose to his cheeks, but neither of them commented on it. Instead, Napoleon stretched his arms above his head with a yawn. Illya studiously averted his gaze from the skin revealed at Napoleon's stomach to the indigo sky outside. The plane rumbled noisily through thick, dark clouds, and touched down onto the runway with a harsh judder. Soft yellow light filtered through the windows, and the patterned lights of the runway tapered off as they reached the main terminal building. The pitter-patter of raindrops beat steadily on the metal around them. 

Typical of Britain, thought Illya. Always raining. 

The plane rumbled to a halt. Napoleon grinned at him, then they stood. The usual announcements were made, and Illya fiddled with his watch until it showed the local time; 12.45am. Napoleon groaned softly, and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, inadvertently drawing Illya's gaze. Something akin to want curled deep inside of him, and Illya squashed it mercilessly. He quickly shook himself of whatever had come over him, and looked up, only to meet Gaby's knowing smile. His eyes narrowed, and she laughed. 

They had no significant luggage to worry about, except for Gaby's handbag, so their disembarkment was quick and painless. Illya offered the stewardess at the door a tired smile and she returned it with a knowing glint. 

Walking into a wall of ice and rain, Illya followed Napoleon down the steep, slippery steps, their footfalls clanking on the metal. The stewardess' perky 'thank you's drifted from the cabin. Feet firmly on solid ground, they made their way to the arrivals area. Gaby was fishing their documentation out of her bag, while Napoleon yawned excessively. They walked easily through the terminal, and joined the queue at the passport checks. 

Customs in the UK was somewhat more lax than in America. After an incident a few years back, the security had tightened significantly worldwide, and Waverly almost always grumbled about how much paperwork they needed to send agents abroad. 

Now, Gaby smiled warmly at the guard as she handed over their paperwork. Illya sighed, noted the name tag of the guard. Mike. Mike studied him analytically, and Illya did his best to shutter off his mind. Napoleon was grinning at the poor soul assigned to detect any feelings of his guilt - a forty-something black woman who Illya had no doubt would smack the American six ways to Sunday should he try anything - while Gaby stood, almost impatient, while a tall, lanky young thing awkwardly studied her.

Guard-Mike gave a soft hum, and took Illya's identification.

They were Tellers. Low-level psychics, employed in the lowest levels of law enforcement. They didn't do much, but their job was important. Detect any feelings of guilt, find the related memory, arrest them if necessary. 

They all turned at the sound of a commotion from behind them.

'Show your teeth!' Demanded the guard. The woman stood in front of him paused. Even from a distance, Illya could see her shaking. She held a young boy in her arms, no older then two. Before the mother could do anything, the child had opened his mouth. Long, pointed canines gleamed white from behind the child's lips. The burly man straightened, and reached for the stake in his belt. The woman cried out, stepped back in terror. Her child began to cry, his wails piercing the air.

'Please,' she begged, the guards drawing in on her, 'he's so young! He doesn't know how to conceal them.'

Gaby looked at the paper in her hands. Napoleon had turned around, away from what was happening in front of them. Illya couldn't look away, but neither could he intervene. 

The guard ripped the child from the mother's arms, while another forcefully restrained her. Her satin scarf was pulled away to reveal two, dark circular marks. Another guard restrained a man, presumably the woman's husband. He had no marks, but it didn't matter. They were all taken away. 

A few seconds of quiet remained. Then, chatter trickled into the silent air, and within seconds, it was as if nothing had happened. People complained about their passport images, while others chatted away. 

Illya's teller, Mike, turned back to him. 'Show me your teeth, please.'

Illya bristled, but opened his mouth, showing the guard two rows of straight, white teeth. 

'Show your neck.'

Gaby tilted her head to the side, sweeping back chocolate hair to show a bare, mark-free neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya saw Napoleon hook a finger around his collar and tug it to the side, to reveal the creamy, flawless skin beneath. Illya swallowed heavily. 

He turned back to the guard, who was still waiting for Illya to do the same. Heaving a sigh, Illya pulled down the collar of his black-turtle neck. There was nothing but smooth skin beneath. 

Napoleon flashed his teller a charming grin, and sauntered out towards the exit. Gaby and Illya both rolled their eyes and followed him. They walked the winding paths of the airport, past the families going on holiday, the students travelling. 

There was no one conspicuous waiting for them at the airport, no obvious car nor escort. The English rain was cold and wet, and Gaby popped open her umbrella. Her heels clicked steadily on the tarmac as they made their way over to the black, London taxi that sat inconspicuously amongst all the others. A man leant on the black metal, droplets of rain bouncing off of his flat cap. A cigarette perched between both fingers, he took a heavy drag in the night's cold air. Smoke snaked from the tip, grey tendrils of tar and poison reaching out towards the inky sky. 

He looked up as they approached, and dropped the stub to the floor, crushing it under his boot. Smoke blew out from his nostrils as he exhaled, his green eyes brighter than emeralds. The ring on his finger glinted sapphire in the street light. He reached to open the door for Gaby, a tattoo of a dragon dancing across his forearm. It snaked down to his long fingers, and disappeared up the man's sleeve. 

Illya followed Napoloen in behind Gaby, and the door closed with a clap behind him. Soon after the engine roared to life, and the peeled out onto the main road, with London ahead.


	4. The Fountain Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this took, I've been super busy!  
> Not much to say for this, really. The boys are in London, having been briefed at London HQ. 
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

_Trafalgar Square, London, England_

The afternoon air was clear and crisp. Trafalgar Square teemed with tourists and families of all kinds. Fountains splashed water high into the overcast sky. The clinking of silverware and crockery drifted in from the encircling cafés and restaurants. The National Gallery sat proudly at the top of the steps, glistening in the unmelted frost.

'Come on, Peril!'

Illya rolled his eyes, planted his feet like a stubborn mule. Napoleon tugged at his sleeve, like a child begging to go into a shop. Gaby smiled at him from her seat in the café, a mug of something or another steaming in front of her. Her white fur coat and stylish updo looked not out of place next to the man she was obviously flirting with. The man chuckled, and her cheeks dusted with pink. The mic in her broach recorded every word her mark said.

'What if it's for the mission?' Napoleon tried, his hand now wrapped around Illya's cold, strong wrist. 

Illya rolled his eyes. Napoleon pouted quite prettily. His blue eyes shone with childish impatience. 

' _Illya,_ ' whined Napoleon. His blue eyes flicked between the building to their left and his Russian partner. His gaze softened, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Illya huffed out a breath. The American's eyes were wide and pleading. He was thrumming with excited energy, rocking impatiently from his heels to the balls of his feet. 

'Cowboy,' Illya tried, but it was no use. He sighed. 'You are like child.'

Napoleon beamed, and Illya's frustration melted away into nothing. Napoleon tugged once more on Illya's sleeve, and the Russian caved. He allowed Napoleon to lead him up the steps like some excited puppy, rock salt crunching under their feet. 

Walking into the gallery was like walking into a wall of heat. Illya shrugged off his coat and hooked it over his arm, turning his neck absentmindedly to the side on his way in. The guard smiled at him, floral tattoos glistening on her hands, and waved them both through. 

It was like letting loose a child in a sweet shop. Napoleon walked around, wide eyed and awed, Illya trailing after him. He pointed out paintings, spoke about artists. Illya had no appreciation for the paintings, not really. He could, however, appreciate Napoloen's love for them. It was quite endearing, actually.

The art had, by some god-given miracle, been relevant to the mission, and Illya had spotted a particularly shifty balding man Napoleon had later identified as an art thief.

'I just know,' the American had said when Illya had questioned him. Well, Illya had thought, he supposed one would recognise one of their own kind. They found themselves running headlong through the gallery, guns drawn, chasing the man's shiny bald patch out and into the square. 

The whole affair had ended with the man pinned beneath Illya's boot and Napoleon in a fountain. The bloke had, kindly, handed over the painting and divulged the identity of his employer when the barrel of Illya's gun had met his chest. He'd been carted off by the local law enforcement, along with Gaby's date, and Napoleon had grumbled the whole way back to the hotel.

'We need to check out this Westcott man,' Illya said once the door to his room had closed. Napoleon loudly lamented the demise of his suit. The water that dripped from it made patting noises on the carpet. Gaby ignored him, and nodded. 

'My lovely date told me that Westcott's having a party at his 18th century home on the weekend,' she said. 'I have an invitation.'

'That could be our in,' Napoleon said distractedly, peeling off his jacket. Illya tore his gaze away from the now translucent white shirt and what it now didn't conceal. Like Napoleon's washboard abs, for example. Illya shifted his weight. He was absolutely not thinking about them. Not at all. 

'It's in Oxfordshire,' said Gaby. 'How far away is that from here?'

Napoleon shrugged. The action pulled at the fabric of his shirt, which was plastered to his skin. Oh _heck_. 

'About an hour and a half,' Illya managed. Only years of spy training kept his voice steady.

Napoleon paused in wringing out his tie - Illya briefly lamented the loss of those flexing, strong muscles - and stared at Illya like he'd sprouted a second head. Illya smiled thinly. 

'What, you think I haven't been to England before?'

'Well, you are Russian,' said Napoleon, like it explained everything. Illya rolled his eyes. 

'Can you forge two more invitations, Cowboy?' Asked Illya. Napoleon's chest puffed in pride, even at the almost genuine offence that overtook his features. 

'I'll take that as a yes,' smiled Gaby. She pulled her invitation from her white, designer handbag. Napoleon took it, held it up to the light.

'Can you do it in time?' Gaby asked. 

'Of course,' said Napoleon. 

And do it he did. By Friday morning, three identical invitations sat on the desk in Napoleon's hotel room. Illya raised an impressed eyebrow when he saw them.

'Good work, Cowboy,' he said. Napoleon preened under the praise. Gaby rolled her eyes. 

'Illya and I are going shopping,' she announced after inspecting them herself. Napoleon opened his mouth.

'You are not coming,' Illya said gruffly. 'You make bad decisions.'

Napoleon's mouth dropped open in outrage. Only half of it was genuine. 'Excuse me, Mr Shitty-Turtleneck,' Illya rolled his eyes, 'but who's the one here with designer friends.'

'You have friends, Cowboy?' Illya asked. Napoleon clicked his tongue. Gaby sniggered into her hand.

'Fuck off Illya,' Napoleon huffed. 

Illya chuckled. 'See you later Cowboy.'


	5. The Westcott Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people!  
> This chapter and the next were written as one, but it would've been far too long to put as one chapter.   
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

'I don't see why I couldn't drive,' Gaby huffed from the backseat of their hired Bentley.

'The Westcotts are a traditional family. They would not take well to a woman driver,' Illya explained.

'Traditional family,' Gaby seethed. She dug her fingernails into the cream, leather upholstery. 'Backwards family more like.'

Illya chuckled. 'Perhaps.'

Napoleon gazed silently out of the window, smiling at the angry mumbling coming from behind him.

'Stupid England,' she muttered. 'They drive on the wrong side of the road, idiots.'

Napoleon laughed, and so did Illya. Napoleon absently thought that Illya should laugh more often. His smile was something to marvel at.

The single carriageway gave way to a backcountry road. Hedges and trees were all they could see. Then, the brown monotony broke off into fields of green pasture. At the end of the road, a house. Lavish, massive and lit by outside lights.

'Over compensating for something?' Muttered Gaby as Illya drew the car to a halt. A member of staff opened Gaby's door for her. Illya tossed him the keys and tipped him. The boy's eyes widened comically as he thanked Illya. After a splutter, a double take, and a trip over his own feet, the boy nodded and went to park the car.

They were led through ornately decorated hallways, furnished with statues and sculptures. Illya's nose turned up. Westcott had bad taste in art.

Napoleon's eyes landed on a clearly fake Monet. He sniffed, and turned to Illya, who nodded. 

The hallway opened up into a ballroom, the floor marble and the walls wooded and white. Illya couldn't help but roll his eyes.

A Shostakovich waltz played in the background. Illya sniffed. It was played too fast by the musicians Westcott had hired. Napoleon, as if sensing his distaste, sent him a smile. He looked particularly dashing in his well tailored suit. Not that Illya could trust his judgment in these sorts of things anymore. He was hardly an unbiased party. 

Napoleon tutted, and reached up to straighten Illya's bowtie. Illya felt a warm fondness wash over him. They stood a moment, Napoleon's fingers smoothing out the crisp collar of Illya's shirt. Napoleon looked up and smiled. Illya nodded his thanks. He felt like he should say something, but was hesitant to brake the moment. 

Instead, he sniffed the air discreetly. A thread of a scent drifted past his nose. He turned, saw the daughter of art dealer they were here to ensnare. She was pale, unnaturally so. Her makeup was dark and alluring, her plump lips painted a ruby red. A lattice of diamonds sat upon her breastbone, drawing Illya's gaze to what the black lace of her dress hid from his view. A choker of black velvet sat around her throat. 

Napoleon's eyes had found the woman as well. He flashed a daring smile in Illya's direction. Confidence and charm rolled off of him in waves. She only had eyes for one man, however, and that man was not Napoleon.

'Charlotte Westcott,' she smiled, extending a pale hand. Napoloen's displeasure was palpable. Illya smiled. 

'Dimitri Kofolev,' said Illya, bending to press his lips to her knuckles.  
Sapphire eyes glistened with desire. She smiled at him, flashing him her teeth and baring her neck. It was a sign of a submissive, and Illya almost growled. 

He straightened, and Charlottle gracefully plucked two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. She handed one to Illya. The rim was embellished in gold, and the base was solid 24 carats, Illya suspected. 

'This waltz,' Charlotte began, coming to stand beside Illya. 'It's far too fast.'

Illya hummed in agreement. Napoleon rolled his eyes and gave up. He found Gaby on the other side of the room. He would have sulked, except Napoleon didn't sulk. So, he huffed, and stood there, not-sulking. Illya smiled. He and Charlotte made comfortable conversation, and Illya kept half an eye on Napoleon, who looked far more miffed than he had right to.

Charlotte drank and drank, and told him far more than he'd expected her to, but he supposed his somewhat persuasive influence over her helped. The fact that they were...similar in nature certainly aided him. 

Charlotte had told him much about her father's plans for England, and exactly why he was stealing artefacts full of dark magic. She explained to him that he needed those witches because he, himself, had no talent in it. Then, the artefacts would be stripped of their magic, and the dark, swirling bottles of death were to be shipped to the USSR. 

The recorder in Illya's cufflink took it all in, wirelessly transmitting it to a tape recorder in the boot of the car they'd hired.

'A very handsome man owned this house before my grandfather did,' she told him, gracing Illya with a knowing smile. 'He was Russian too.' Illya smiled, accepting her words for what they were. 'Would you like a tour?'

'Just of one room in particular,' said Illya. Charlotte smirked. 

Sure he would follow, she walked away from him, hips swaying enticingly. Her heels clicked on the marbled flooring, her long, dark hair swishing with every step. He followed her into a corridor, and up a set of stairs. Their champagne flutes sat forgotten on an end table somewhere in the vast maze of the house. They turned left into a room that couldn't have been anything but her bedroom. It was awash with hues of rose gold. Illya, however chic it was, wasn't here to critique her interior design.

She looked at him through her long, dark lashes. Head bowed in submission, she blinked lazily, each move laced with allure.

He took a step towards her, crowded her against the door. She smiled in delight, tilted her head to the side in invitation. Illya wasted no time. He kissed her with instinctual desire. She replied with a soft moan. Her cold hands knotted in his hair, black nails digging into his scalp like talons. His mouth moved from hers to kiss down her neck. He bit down into the porcelain skin there, and Charlotte's knees very nearly buckled in pleasure.

Her head fell back, and she pushed his jacket off of his shoulders with intent to undress him further. Illya undid the zip on the back of her dress, and the black silk pooled around her ankles. His tie joined the pile, then, too did his shirt. His fingers found the pin in her hair, and he pulled. Chocolate strands fell to frame her face like falling feathers, framing her sculpted cheekbones. 

She pulled back, eyes dark with lust, and sank gracefully to her knees. A position fuelled by instinct. 

'Claim me,' she said. 'Mark me, make me yours. Show me my place.'

Illya fucked her once against the door, then again, twice more, on the bed. Her moans were deep and guttural, her fingers clawed at his back. She praised his name with more reverence than she would their God as Illya claimed her again and again.

Illya woke the next morning, Charlotte snoring softly next to him. The room was dark, all sunlight blocked by two, thick golden pairs of curtains. Illya wished they were open, to reveal the large windows hidden from him. The heat of the sun and its warm hues would bathe the room in gold. Charlotte, alas, being so young, would not be comfortable with the sun's rays on her. 

A knock on the door, and a butler walked in, four crystal glasses on a silver tray. The liquid inside two were amber and thin, while the other two were filled to the brim with a thick, red liquid. 

'Your drinks, ma'am,' the butler said. He walked over to the bed, and offered his mistress the tray.

'Thank you Gregory,' said Charlotte. She sat up, the white, silky sheets tucked under her arms. Illya sat too, the sheets pooling at his waist. Charlotte took two glasses, and Gregory rounded the bed to offer the other two to Illya. He took them.

'Did you have a good evening, ma'am?' Gregory asked conversationally, picking up his mistress' clothing from the floor.

'Yes,' smiled Charlotte, and even to Illya's ears she sounded smitten. 'Dimitri was most attentive.'

Gregory smiled. 'Very good ma'am,' he said, and then he was gone.

Charlotte held up the glass. She dipped her finger in, the crimson liquid pooled on her fingertip, snaking down the pale skin. Iron assaulted Illya's senses. Charlotte put her finger in her mouth, and sucked on it. Her cheeks hollowed out, and Illya was reminded of the skill and dexterity of his bedmate's more useful attributes. 

Illya drank the whiskey first, without much ceremony. Then, the second glass, slower. He relished the taste, the heat held within. Warmth spread from his chest, out towards the tingle in his fingers. A drop ran down past his lips, dragging a path to his chin. Charlotte's eyes grew fixated on it. She drank both drinks of her own, then crawled over to Illya. Legs straddling his hips, she leant forwards, tongue lapping at the path of the droplet, up into Illya's mouth. 

Charlotte's warm hands on his chest, they kissed without hurry for some time. Illya's hands found her waist, Charlotte's hips rocking back and forth against him. She made quiet, breathy moans, teeth stained a deep red. He brought her to completion four times before it was time for him to leave.

Charlotte wrapped herself in the silky bed sheet while he dressed. She walked him to the door, waved him away with a smile. Illya slid into the car, and made sure to leave a tracker under the seat. The car pulled up at the hotel, and Illya exited, thanked and tipped the driver before stepping out onto the street. The sun was warm on his face, despite the chill in the air.

He entered the hotel, took the lift up to his floor. He took his key out of his pocket, and slipped it in. It turned. The sound of footsteps reached him. 

'This was not a honey-trap mission.'

It was Napoleon. 

'We got the information we needed, yes?' Illya asked, pulling the key from the lock and stepping inside to allow Napoleon entry. Napoleon stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him.

'Yes, but-'

'But what, Cowboy?' Illya asked. Napoleon's blue eyes were full of frustration and anger. 'How is this different from any other time you've seduced a mark?'

Napoleon was struggling. 'No, it's not the same. It's...you...'

'So you're annoyed that she chose me, not you.'

Napoleon growled. 'No, that's not-'

'Then what is it?' Illya interrupted. Napoleon flushed pink. His eyes dropped to the floor, a note of fierce possessiveness in them.

Illya's smile was all teeth. 'Are you jealous, Cowboy?' 

Napoleon's head snapped up. He blushed to the tips of his ears, then hurried to turn his head away. 

'No.'

Illya took a step closer. God, Napoleon smelt intoxicating. All musk, testosterone and anger. Illya inhaled it, his eyes drawn to the pulse throbbing at the base of Napoleon's neck. 

There was a knock at the door. Illya stepped back, and Napoleon's knees almost gave out. Dazed, he moved away from the door, and practically fell into an armchair. The knock came again. Illya opened the door. 

It was Gaby.

'Welcome back,' she smiled, eyes knowing. 'Did you enjoy yourself?'

Illya rolled his eyes and shrugged a shoulder. Frustration was rolling off of Napoleon in waves. Gaby ignored it, and him. She walked to the sofa, and fell into it gracefully. 

'I've spoken to Waverly,' she said, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under herself. 'He says he's pleased with the results we've yielded so far, and he would like us to follow the trail to Ukraine.'

Illya nodded, moving to the decanter on the dresser. He poured three drinks 'And Westcott?'

'The UK team will sort out the clean up, and will tie up any loose ends that may remain,' she said, thanking Illya when he handed a drink to her. 

'When do we leave?' Illya asked, walking over to Napoleon and pressing the crystal glass into his hand. He moved to lean on the armchair, hand resting on the leather millimetres away from Napoleon's shoulder. Gaby looked between them. Her gaze softened. 

'In about three weeks,' she sniffed, taking a sip of her drink. 'Waverly says that we should wait to follow the next shipment, which we know is in three weeks, thanks to you.'

'What do we do until then?'

Gaby shrugged. 'Wait.' She paused, drink halfway to her lips. A smirk hid behind her glass. 'He also begrudges paying for more than two rooms, so you and Napoleon are going to have to share.'

Illya sighed. Great.

Napoleon seemed to come back to himself somewhat. 'Where's the next shipment going?'

'Kiev,' said Gaby. Illya's grip tightened on the leather. Gaby watched him with concern. 

Napoleon must've sensed some of the tension behind him. 'Peril?' He asked.

'Fine,' said Illya. 

Napoleon nodded, drank his drink. 'I'll bring my things in the morning,' he said, and then he was gone. The door closed behind him. Illya gave Gaby a long-suffering look. She only smiled.


	6. The Love Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter as a thank you to you all, and as an apology for not doing a Napollya Valentine's Day thing. I hope you enjoy these two finally, _finally_ getting it on.
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

True to his word, Napoleon brought himself, his _attitude_ and his things to Illya's room the next morning. Gaby hovered, making smart comments and an all around general nuisance of herself. She was enjoying every second. Illya was hating it.

The first week dragged by. They had learnt of nothing but Napoleon's stellar ability to hold a grudge.

Day six, and Napoleon still wasn't speaking to Illya. It was possibly the most awkward situation they'd ever been in. 

'You know,' said Gaby as she inspected a jacket in the small but expensive shop they were in, 'you should talk to him.'

Illya scoffed, both at her statement and her choice of colour. Bright green. 

Gaby's nose wrinkled. She put the jacket back. 'He's really committed.'

Illya picked up a pastel blue, knee length coat. Gaby ran the fabric between her fingers, and shook her head.

'He's being childish,' said Illya. 'Are you sure?'

'The fabric's too coarse.'

Illya tilted his head to the side, then shrugged. The coat went back. 

'I'll need to pick up stuff for a new spell.' Illya hummed inquisitively. Gaby tossed him a smile over her shoulder. She continued speaking. 'It's for rapid healing. I'm not sure if it'll work, but the exchange rate is good now.'

Illya nodded. 'Rapid healing would be useful.' 

'That's what I said to Waverly.' Gaby picked up a soft yellow mac. 'Have you tried speaking to him?'

Illya nodded. 'I don't like that one.'

'I thought it was cute.'

'Yellow is too loud.'

'True.' The mac went back. They moved on to the next rack, shoes clicking on the wooden flooring. Gaby's fingers ran over a white dress.

She held it up to Illya. 'You should try to make an effort, Illya.'

Illya pouted, half indignant. 

Gaby rolled her eyes, and moved to stand in the mirror. 'Napoleon's a romantic.' She held the dress in front of herself. 'What do you think?'

'Looks good,' said Illya. 'He'll probably be over it soon.'

Gaby smiled. 'No, he won't.'

She handed the dress to Illya. It joined the four others he was already carrying, as well as the light orange coat Gaby had folded over her arm. 

Illya rolled his eyes. 'Cowboy is so much work.'

Gaby laughed. 'Yes he is, but he's worth it.'

Illya huffed. 'You need shoes.'

'Yes,' said Gaby. 'Let's pay for these, then we'll go get them.'

Four hours, six shops, two bottles of wine and a restaurant later, Illya and Gaby made their way to the hotel. It was dark, the air cold and bitter against their skin. Gaby had her arm looped through Illya's. She was giggling, the hair of her fringe falling in front of her eyes. Illya smiled, took a drag of the cigarette perched between his fingers. 

Gaby paused in her uneven strides to look at Illya. The bags in her hand swung and smacked him in the thigh. 'You're my best friend.' 

Illya chuckled. They began walking again. 'And you are drunk.'

Gaby beamed at no one in particular. 'I'm your best friend too, right?'

Something in Illya's eyes softened. He blew out the smoke from his lungs. 'Yes, Myshka, you are.'

Gaby nodded, satisfied, and began to drift to the right. Illya gently pulled her back by his side. She laughed again, bright and full of joy. Illya couldn't help the smile that pulled his lips.

They turned a corner, and the hotel came into view. Illya snubbed out his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. 

He left Gaby outside her room with a peck to the cheek. Two hands held him close.

'Talk to him,' she told him. He nodded, dropped a kiss to her forehead. Her eyes narrowed. Satisfied with whatever she was seeing, she released him and slipped into her room. 

He walked to his own and opened the door. Napoleon was awake, lounging on an armchair, a glass of whiskey in hand. 

The door closed loudly behind Illya. The sound echoed in the room.

'Did you have a good time with Gaby?' Napoleon asked, almost bitterly. Illya sighed. 

'I did, yes,' he said. 'I see you're speaking to me now.'

Napoleon pursed his lips. The air cracked with tension. Illya shrugged off his jacket. Napoleon's eyes followed his every move. Illya didn't have to be an empath to feel the unholy amount of suppressed rage flowing from Napoleon. Illya's own anger reared its head in response. Illya moved around the room in silence until a particularly loud huff from Napoleon made him snap.

'What is your problem, Cowboy?'

Napoleon's jaw clenched. He stood and moved to pour himself another drink. He pushed past Illya quite roughly, and shrugged in a poor impression of disinterest. 

'Why do you care?' Napoleon had intended to leave it at that, but his anger seemed to be running his mouth nowadays. 'You didn't seem to care when you were fucking Charlotte.'

'I am allowed to spend my time with who I like.'

'I know,' Napoleon spat. Illya raised an eyebrow. There was a moment's silence, heavy and thick. 

'So you are jealous.'

'No,' Napoleon denied, very quickly. 'Why would I be jealous?'

'I don't know, because you've been acting like a child for the past week?'

Napoleon slammed the decanter down hard. Amber whiskey sloshed loudly inside the bottle. The wood of the table cracked. He turned to face Illya, and regretted it.

'Why are you so angry cowboy?' Illya pressed. 'Why do you care so much about who I choose to fuck?'

Napoleon inhaled sharply. His knuckles turned white around the glass of the decanter. 

'Would you rather it be you?'

'Peril,' Napoleon warned, voice a growl.

'Would you rather I fucked _you_ instead, Napoleon?'

'Dammit, yes!' Napoleon shouted. He opened his mouth to speak again, but nothing more than a surprised groan escaped him when he found Illya's mouth on his. 

Moaning into the kiss, Napoleon's arms quickly came up to encircle Illya's neck. Illya's body was hard and unyielding against his own, cold like ice. Napoleon pulled back.

'Illya,' he began, eyes almost rolling into the back of his head when Illya's focal point became Napoleon's neck. 'Illya, stop.'

Illya pulled back immediately. He didn't look hurt, but he did look confused. There was no anger in his gaze, and none in Napoleon's heart. 'What?'

'I don't... I don't know if I can...' Napoleon barely understood his own thoughts, but Illya seemed to understand. His hand came up to gently cup Napoleon's cheek, thumb brushing over a sharp cheekbone. There was a deep, soul aching sadness in his eyes when he spoke, despite the gentle, sincere smile on his face.

'This can be nothing more than a one time thing, Cowboy, if that's what you want.'

Napoleon shook his head. 'I don't want that.'

Something like hope sparked in Illya's eyes. 'Then what do you want?'

'You. Always. Only.'

Illya smiled, softer than Napoleon had even seen him. 'Then that is what you shall have.'

Napoleon let out a sound that could have been a laugh, but sounded like a sob. He kissed Illya again, ran his fingers down Illya's back and back up. They settled on his shoulders while Illya's hands slid to cup Napoleon's ass. Pressed flush against each other, their breathing hot and heavy, Napoleon could hardly believe this was real. 

'I'm here,' Illya said against his lips, as if reading his mind. 'I've got you.'

Napoleon nodded, slipped his hands beneath Illya's shirt. His fingers met cold skin and hard muscle. The pads of his fingers ran over the ridges of Illya's abs. 

'You're so cold,' Napoleon breathed, flattening his hands on Illya's stomach. Illya did nothing but pull him closer. The warmth of Napoleon's body seeped deep beneath his skin. Napoleon shivered. Illya's fingers deftly removed his waistcoat, tie and shirt. They were discarded, and then Illya's hands were running over his stomach, down to the small of his back. 

Cool fingers dipped beneath the waistline of his trousers, a teasing brush of cool fingers against the bare skin of his ass before they continued of their exploration. Napoleon keened softly, pressed himself forwards and into Illya's body. He worked the buttons on Illya's shirt with shaking hands, and it fell to the floor in a pile of cotton.

'God,' he murmured, almost in awe of the man before him. 'You're perfect Illya.'

A dusting of pink gathered on Illya's cheeks. Knotting his hands in Napoleon's dark hair, Illya pulled the American in for a deep, long kiss. He pulled back, regarded Napoleon with warm, soft eyes. 'So beautiful.'

Illya gently lead him to the bed and sat down, Napoleon straddling his lap. Napoleon rocked his hips into Illya's with a soft gasp. He leaned down, hair falling in front of his face, and kissed Illya again and again, marvelling at the fact that he could. 

Warm fingers cupped Illya's cold cheeks, to anchor and to hold. Napoleon moaned breathily into Illya's mouth, quiet and soft. Illya's hand found his neck and back, wandering down the pale skin there with light scratches. Napoleon pulled back, hair dishevelled, breathing heavy. 

There was something about Illya that made Napoleon want to sink to his knees, to keen and beg and be commanded. 

So he did.

His knees hit the floor with a soft thud. Illya's eyes, pupils blown with arousal, followed Napoleon's every move. 

Napoleon took his time in undoing the fly of Illya's trousers. Illya lifted his hips, ran his fingers through Napoleon's soft, dark hair. Napoleon looked up at him, choked on the warmth spreading in his chest. The fabric fell to the floor.

Napoleon smiled. He traced the line of Illya's cock with his fingers, teasing. Illya shivered. Napoleon wanted to tease, to go slow, to know Illya's body as intimately as he would know his own. 

He leant forwards, mouthed Illya's cock through his underwear. The grip in his hair tightened. Napoleon moaned. He teased his tongue along the fabric until Illya was shaking with pent up need. 

Pushing the cotton away, he was pleasantly surprised, if a little intimidated by, Illya's size. Eyes flicking briefly to Illya's face, he took Illya's cock in hand, gently sucked on the tip, before taking him fully into his mouth.

At Illya's answering groan, Napoleon moved, head bobbing up and down, Illya's cock sliding between his lips. One hand on Illya's hips to steady himself, the other taking what his mouth couldn't, Napoleon revelled in the pleasure he was bringing his normally stoic Russian partner. Illya was coming undone before his eyes, and it was beautiful.

He took Illya as deep as he could, hands clenching as he choked, once, twice, before pulling back. Illya was gasping around laboured breaths, and really, Napoleon was getting off on Illya's pleasure, his own cock hard and straining against the fabric of his trousers.

Illya's fingers knotted in his hair. He pulled Napoleon's mouth off of his cock. Napoleon looked up at him, sapphire eyes behind dark, long lashes. His lips were swollen and slick with spit. His chest rapidly expanded and contracted with each breath. Illya could feel Napoleon's heart pounding in his chest, could smell the need and arousal pouring from the man on his knees before him. 

'You are so beautiful like this,' Illya said. Napoleon smiled, stretched up to kiss Illya, one hand on Illya's knee, the other on the back of his neck.

'Make love to me Illya,' Napoleon said, voice low and gentle. 'Please.'

Illya smiled, pulled Napoleon up so that he could kiss him properly. Napoleon settled into his lap, skin warm against Illya's. Gently, Illya guided Napoleon onto his back. He kissed Napoleon's mouth, trailed feather light kisses down his neck and chest. Trousers and boxers were removed in one, gentle motion. 

Eyes never leaving Napoleon's, Illya took him into his mouth. He paid attention to every noise he drew out of his lover's mouth, every gasp, every whine, every moan. He eased Napoleon's legs up so that they were bent, ducked his head further down to bury his nose in Napoleon's perineum. 

The sound that left Napoleon's mouth was ungodly. His hands fisted in the sheets as Illya's tongue seemed set on unraveling him from the inside out.

'Oh god, Illya, yes,' he choked out, whimpering in pleasure. His eyes closed as his hips bucked upwards. Illya pulled back for a moment, and Napoleon let out a whine of protest. There was the sound of wood scraping against wood, a click, and then a cool, slicked finger joined Illya's tongue. Napoleon swore.

Two fingers, and Napoleon was keening, pushing himself back against Illya.

'Illya please, I'm ready,' he gasped. 'Illya please, I need you.'

Illya pulled back, and Napoleon watched him take a generous amount of Vaseline in hand and slick himself up with it. 

'Always prepared Peril,' Napoleon joked.

'Like Boy Scout,' was Illya's answer as he gently pushed into Napoleon's tight heat. They both gasped. Illya paused a moment for Napoleon to adjust.

'Illya, I swear to god if you don't move,'

'So impatient,' Illya said, leaning forward to kiss Napoleon sweetly. He did as he was told. Napoleon moaned in appreciation. It felt so good.

Illya rested his forehead against Napoleon's. They kissed, slowly, intimately, as Illya moved without hurry. 

'Illya,' Napoleon said, voice quiet and shaky. Illya smiled, kissed him again. 'I...'

'I know,' Illya whispered, cradling Napoleon's face in his hands. Napoleon nodded. There were tears in his eyes. Illya kissed them away.

Napoleon moaned gently, and lifted his head to kiss Illya. He gasped, hips rising to meet Illya's.

They moved as one, so tangled, Napoleon couldn't tell where Illya stopped and he began. It was so good, so intimate. Napoleon had never felt so cared for. It was an overwhelming sensation, the warmth in his chest coupled with the heightening pleasure pooling deep within his abdomen. 

Illya's hand brushed down Napoleon's body, over the ridges of his abdominal muscles and down to Napoleon's hard, aching cock. Napoleon gasped out a moan, pushed himself up into Illya's cool hand. Each stroke of of Illya's hand brought him closer and closer to the edge, more undone and unraveled than anyone had ever seen him.

Illya's blond hair fell in front of his eyes, rhythmically brushing against the skin of Napoleon's neck. Illya bent to kiss the skin there, teeth sharp. Illya sucked until the skin mottled a dark purple. Napoleon liked it, being claimed.

Illya hooked one of Napoleon's legs behind his shoulder. The changed angle made them both moan. Each thrust of Illya's hips hit Napoleon's prostate, each motion made Illya lose himself just a little more.

Soft words of praise fell from Napoleon's mouth. His hands moved from Illya's hair, to the silky bed sheets, then back. His head fell back as his back arched. 

Napoleon came with a soft gasp, Illya's hand guiding him through to completion. Illya followed not long after, a quiet moan and a release of tension. 

After a moment where they did nothing but breathe, Illya pulled out. He led next to Napoleon for a moment, exhausted, and waited to catch his breath before moving to the bathroom. Napoleon watched him through tired, half-lidded eyes. 

Illya returned with a washcloth. It was warm against Napoleon's skin as he gently wiped Napoleon's stomach. He threw it to one side, then leant down to kiss the American on the mouth. Illya reached over Napoleon and flicked off the light.

Napoleon hummed happily, turned onto his side when Illya settled beside him. They both slipped under the covers. Hands cupping Illya's face, Napoleon kissed him, their legs intertwined. The streetlights from outside slipped through the curtains and cast a strip of orange through the dark room. 

They didn't know how long they stayed there, holding each other, tasting each other. Sleep nudged at the edges of Napoleon's consciousness, Illya pressed against him, comforting and cool in the stuffy air.

The phone rang. Napoleon tightened his hold on Illya, kissed him deeper. If anything, the ringing got louder. But Napoleon must have been imagining things.

Illya sighed, reluctantly untangled himself from Napoleon and went to answer the phone.

'Hello?' His voice was hoarse, and Napoleon smirked in satisfaction. 'Yes sir.'

Napoleon clicked his tongue. Classic Waverly timing.

'Oh.' Illya sounded miffed. Napoleon propped himself up onto an elbow.  
He admired the curve of Illya's ass as the Russian spoke to Waverly on the phone. All those hard muscles and strong lines all wrapped up in a package that the Grecian Gods would envy. 

'Yes sir, I understand.' Illya hung up. He looked less than pleased. Napoleon raised a questioning eyebrow. 'Gaby will not be accompanying us to Ukraine.'

'Oh,' Napoleon said as Illya slipped back into bed beside him. 'Did Waverly say why?'

Illya shrugged, wrapping an arm around Napoleon. 'He said that Dancer was down a partner while Mark recovers. We work well together, so he says he's not worried.'

Napoleon nodded, pressing himself against Illya's side. He yawned sleepily. 'Does he even know what time it is here?'

Illya chuckled, pressing a kiss to Napoleon's hairline. 'I am sure he does.'

Napoleon glared at the Waverly in his mind. He leaned up to kiss Illya again, gently. Then, he settled his head on his Russian's chest, and promptly fell asleep.

The next morning came with the sun and the unholy sound of a bird screeching outside the window.

Napoleon groaned, buried his face in his pillow. A cold, heavy weight settled over his waist. His eyes flew open. Memories of the night before slowly trickled into his sleep addled mind. He smiled, settled back into the person behind him. Illya's cool breath ghosted on the back of Napoleon's neck.

The bird screeched again. Napoleon had half a mind to throw open the window and shoot it. 

The hand on Napoleon's stomach twitched. Illya practically nuzzled into Napoleon's back, huffing. The American smiled, turned in Illya's arms to face the now awake Russian. Illya's pale blue eyes greeted him tiredly. Napoleon kissed him, just because he could. 

They dozed for awhile, noses practically touching. Illya was colder than last night, if such a thing were possible. Napoleon huddled closer, an attempt to warm Illya up. 

'You're so cold,' he muttered into the shared air between them. Illya chuckled, ran those cold fingers down Napoleon's back. Napoleon shivered, arched away from those freezing hands and into Illya's body. His second shiver was not because of the cold. 

'Illya,' he breathed, eyes fluttering closed. Illya hummed in response, nudging Napoleon's head up for a kiss. He slipped a hand between them. Napoleon gasped, both at Illya's touch and the coldness of it. Within moments, he was reduced to quiet, breathy moans as he rocked himself into Illya's deft touch. It wasn't long before they were both coming over their stomachs, Napoleon with a low, quiet moan and Illya with a grunt.

They laid there, boneless. Sticky, but stated. 

'Shower?' Napoleon asked. 

Illya nodded. 'Then breakfast.'

An hour later, there came a knock on the door. Napoleon, buttering toast, really couldn't be bothered to move. If it was the maid, they could come back later.

'I know you're both in there,' Gaby's voice drifted in. 

Napoleon sighed heavily. Illya smiled as he pored them coffee. Napoleon took a moment to marvel at Illya, and how much he'd changed since they'd first met. All that anger had given way to so much caring. Napoleon lo-

The knock came again, interrupting Napoleon's dangerous train of thought. 

Gaby, stood outside, waited patiently with a bag of still warm pastries in her hands. There was some shuffling, and the sound of conversation. 

The door opened. Napoleon was behind it. He was practically glowing, and he graced her with a smile. His hair was wet, skin still flushed from the heat of the shower. She looked past him, to Illya, who was holding a mug of coffee. She held his gaze, then stepped into the room.

Gaby handed the pastries to Napoleon. Her eyes found the purple bruise on his neck. She smiled. 

Waverly owed her eighty quid.


	7. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, life has been a dick!   
> Idris Elba is who I've mentally cast as Dimitri here, and idk maybe Takeshi Kaneshiro as Ookami, idk. 
> 
> As always,   
> Enjoy!

_Kiev, Ukraine, 1748._

_Tap, tap, tap_.

A man tapped his cane on the floor. Rhythmic, impatient. Tall and lithe, his dark hair lay braided down his back. Sharp, golden eyes were filled with amusement, and some annoyance. At his feet lay a young man in a pool of blood. Strong muscles rippled under pale skin. Blond hair fell over his eyes, dripping with warm crimson. His breathing was raspy. He tried to sit up, but his arms were shaking too much. He fell back to the floor with a grunt.

'You let your anger rule you.'

The blond spat out the blood in his mouth. 'I think you broke my jaw.'

The elder of the two shrugged. 'It will heal, you are still young.'

Blue eyes peered up through bloodied hair, glistening with pain and amusement. 'And you are old?'

'Far older than you, sweet child.' The man chuckled. He extended a hand to help the boy up, his skin dark against the white of his shirt. The blond took it, and heaved himself to his feet. 'Now, we try again.'

'Can't we take a break Dimitri?' The boy asked.

'Your enemies will not rest, boy. You will be sooner dead than rested.'

'But you are not my enemy.'

Dimitri smiled. 'No.' 

A large, black hound padded into the room, it's claws clicking on the tiled flooring. 

'Ookami,' Dimitri greeted. The hound grunted out a sound in return. It paused, took in the scene, then sighed heavily through it nose. Its eyes rolled, and the boy smiled. There was the sound of cracking bones. The hound was gone, and in its place, a man. 

' _Konbanwa_ ,' Ookami said, voice gruff. He turned to the boy. 'He has been training you hard?'

The boy nodded. ' _Da_.'

Ookami smiled. It was all teeth. 'Good.'

'He gives up too easily. It is not-'

'The Russian way,' Ookami drawled. He smiled warmly at the boy. 'Yes, we know.'

Dimitri huffed. 'Five minutes, then, we go again.'

The boy rolled his eyes. Ookami gave him an affectionate look. Gentle fingers were probing the purpling skin of the blond's jaw. 

'Dimitri only pushes you because he cares,' Ookami said. The boy hissed, and flinched away from Ookami's touch. 'It's not broken, but it's badly bruised.'

The boy nodded. There was a comfortable silence where Ookami checked over the boy's other injuries. 

'He brought up my father again today.'

Ookami sighed. He spoke as he peeled the boy's blood soaked shirt from his battered body. 'He wants you to control your anger. Whatever he said, I'm sure he did not mean it.'

A rib moved under Ookami's fingers. The boy grunted in pain. 

'I will tell Dimitri that you are done for today. This rib is broken. You will need rest.'

The boy nodded. Ookami stepped back. The boy caught the other's hands in his own. ' _Doumo arigatou, Ookami_.'

Ookami smiled, gave the boy's hands a tight squeeze, then left the room, dark robes billowing out behind him. The boy smiled, and stared out of the window. It was snowing. 

'Are you coming, youngling?'

' _Da._ ‘


	8. The Waiting Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short but sweet chapter to make up for my absence. These two are just too cute, and I swear they will be the death of me.
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

Napoleon woke to the quiet sound of traffic. The bed was cool and empty beside him. He was alone.

He sat up with a yawn. A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table showed a glaring 3:13am. Napoleon furrowed his eyebrows, eyes scanning the darkness of the room. No light could be seen anywhere, not even under the crack of the bathroom door. There was no indication that Illya was here, or that he'd left only recently. 

Worrying would do no good, Napoleon thought to himself. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. Surely Illya couldn't be too long. Napoleon would wait up for him, just to make sure he was okay. Maybe he'd gone to see Gaby, or perhaps he'd slipped out to take a phone call, considerate enough to not want to wake Napoleon. 

Napoleon yawned as he climbed out of bed. He paused and considered a moment before pulling the red, woollen throw from the foot of the bed. Wrapping it around himself, he padded the the bathroom, shoulders warmed. Feet warm against cold tile, he flicked the light on and blinked against the sudden brightness. He turned on the cold water tap as his eyes adjusted. 

Reaching for a glass and placing it under the stream of water, he contemplated the night previous. He and Illya had curled up around each other in the bed, Illya a mass of ice next to the heat Napoleon's body was producing. Both of them were breathing heavily, Napoleon's entire body shaking with released euphoria. Illya's chest to Napoleon's back, they'd laid comfortably, Illya occasionally pressing soft kisses to Napoleon's neck, sometimes nipping at the flesh with his teeth and soothing over the mark with his tongue. Napoleon lavished under Illya's attentions, chest filled with something warm and content. 

Cold water hit his fingers, and Napoleon came back to himself somewhat. He moved the glass from under the tap and drained it in almost one gulp. The glass clacked against the marble countertop, and he shut of the water. Blue eyes flickered upwards, and he looked at himself in the mirror. A darkening bruise blossomed on his neck. He lifted a hand, and ran his fingers over the sensitive skin. Something stirred within him. It felt good, to be marked. Illya was laying his claim, marking what was his. Napoleon liked it. 

The clock on the table made a quiet click as 3:14 rolled into 3:15. Napoleon sighed, turned away from the mirror, and walked out of the bathroom. He flicked the light off and closed the door behind him. He made his way to the chair closest to him, eyes trying to focus in the inky darkness of the room. He reached for the table-lamp and reached up under the shade to turn it on. The bulb buzzed, then flickered to life. Soft amber light filled the room. He made his way over to the chair nearest to him and sat in it. He would wait for Illya.

At 4:33am, the door to their room opened quietly. Illya stepped inside, the door closing behind him. It dragged against the carpet, a soft swoosh-click in the quiet of the room. He turned, and something in his chest constricted painfully. There, curled up in the chair and bathed in a golden light, sat Napoleon. Half resting against the armrest, one leg tucked under himself while the other hung off the armrest, he snored softly. Cocooned in the comfortable warmth of the woollen throw, hair ruffled by sleep, Illya thought the man had never looked so beautiful. 

Smiling, Illya took a long moment to just look, just because he could. Then, silently, he removed his jacket and shoes, and reached to switch of the lamp. Then, he walked quietly over to Napoleon, carefully scooped the man up into his arms and made his way over to the bed. _Their_ bed. Napoleon made a small sound in his sleep, his head falling to rest on Illya's shoulder. Illya's heart threatened to beat out of his chest. 

He laid Napoleon down gently on the bed, and pulled the covers up over him. Illya ran the backs of his fingers briefly over Napoleon's cheek before placing a gentle kiss to Napoleon's brow. He smiled fondly, then moved to the bathroom.

Napoleon stirred, woken by warm hands and the sounds of running water. He opened his eyes, saw the light on in the bathroom and the shadow of a person and smiled. Closing his eyes, he sighed as the water shut off and the light turned to darkness. The bed dipped beside him, Illya's body warm and welcome next to his. Napoleon shifted, moving to lay his head on Illya's shoulder. Strong arms wrapped around him, and Napoleon nuzzled into Illya's embrace, making a small sound of contentment. Tomorrow he would ask where Illya had gone, but for now, Illya was here, and that was all that mattered.


	9. Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, but there's another chapter on its way I promise! Don't murder me xD
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

Napoleon woke to the sound of the city outside, and a gentle warmth on his body. He stretched languidly, the vertebrae in his back clicking back into place. Golden sunlight streamed in through the window. Illya was on the phone, speaking in fast, clipped Russian. Napoleon turned his head, gazing out of the window. His Russian wasn't good enough to for him to understand Illya without more effort, so he tuned him out instead, trusting his partner would fill him in later. A film of frost covered the individual panes, white and glistening in the morning sun. The sound of traffic drifted in through the glass. 

He dozed lazily, sheets pooled at his hips. He roused only when there was a dip in the bed and a warm hand cupping his cheek. He made a small sound of content, sighing into the kiss Illya placed on his lips.

'Morning,' Napoleon murmured against Illya's lips. Illya smiled and kissed him again. 'Where were you last night?'

Illya moved to brush the backs of his fingers over Napoleon's cheek. 'Chasing down a lead.' Napoleon made a hum of inquisitive surprise. Illya kissed him again. 'Might be something.' His thumb ran over Napoleon's cheekbone. 'I'm not sure.'

'Oh,' Napoleon sighed. Illya smiled, then straightened and moved to the wardrobe. Napoleon rolled onto his side, staring at Illya with open affection. 'Then we can stay here for awhile, with nothing pressing to occupy us?'

Illya rolled his eyes. 'Of course.'

Napoleon made a small sound of contentment, smiling under Illya's adoring gaze. He rolled onto his front, burying his face in the pillow.

'Don't want to move,' he mumbled. 'Ever.'

Illya chuckled, and pulled out a pair of running shoes. 'I am going for a run, you can stay here.'

Napoleon lifted his head only enough to turn it. 'I will,' he said, watching unabashedly as Illya changed into appropriate clothing. 'How long will you be?'

Illya shrugged. He moved to sit on the bed and bent over to tie his laces. 'An hour, maybe less.' 

'We can go for breakfast after?' 

Illya ran a hand through Napoleon's dark hair, petting him as if he were a whiney little kitten. 'If you like.'

Napoleon made a small noise of assent, already half asleep again. Illya smiled, and leant over to press a kiss to Napoleon's temple. Napoleon sleepily reached for him, pulling Illya down to kiss him properly, if awkwardly. 

'Don't be too long,' Napoleon mumbled.

'I'll try not to be,' Illya said. Napoleon nodded, satisfied, and led back down. Illya stood and made his way to the door, flicking the light off again. Napoleon burrowed himself further down into the blanket, and promptly fell asleep.


	10. Best of Eliza, and best of women.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Napoleon have their first disagreement, and we meet someone from Illya’s past. A little more is revealed about the Westcotts, and the woman everyone’s so afraid of. But just who is this George, and just _what_ is Illya?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been months, I know! I struggled with this one, mostly because I wasn’t sure how ambiguous I wanted to be, and maybe it’s too vague, or confusing, but I couldn’t wait any longer. So, here it is! 
> 
> As always,  
> Enjoy!

It had been six days, and Napoleon had almost forgotten about the breakfast Illya had promised him. He’d been so distracted by their investigations. Bodies had begun to turn up, reeking of dark magic and of decay. They’d been drained of life, or of blood, or of magic, and it was so inconsistent, they were all struggling. They’d hit brick wall after brick wall. It was frustrating. They’d made little progress in the month and a half they’d been in London. He’d never have taken the assignment if he knew it would have been this _slow_. They’d gained nothing but a growing pile of bodies with a set of unanswered questions to match, and Napoleon had a horrible feeling that Illya knew more than he was telling them. 

So, after a particularly hard day with the local police, who were more incompetent than Napoleon had given them credit for, he’d dragged both Illya and Gaby out for lunch. Work never stopped, but there was room enough in their day for a break and some good food. 

Napoleon sipped at the coffee in the mug that warmed his hands. The sky was a misty twilight in the afternoon rain. The cafe they’d ended up at post-meal was quiet and warm. Over to the left, a mother herded her child away from the tree and back towards his seat. An instrumental Christmas carol played softly in the background. Illya sat beside him, lounging in the plush sofa. 

Gaby dropped down onto the armchair opposite, waving a hand over her hot chocolate to warm it back up. There was rain in her hair and on her clothes. Her coat and scarf hung on a nearby coat stand. Droplets of melted ice clung like crystals to the teal fabric. With a lazy motion of her hand, they were warm and dry once more. 

'There's a woman Waverly wants us to talk to,' she said, leaning over to pick up her mug. 'The car’ll be here in a hour.'

Napoleon nodded. Break almost over. Illya's gaze drifted out of the window. For a moment, the street was empty, and the sound of cars became the sound of horseshoes. Gaby shifted in her seat, and the illusion was broken. People rushed to and fro in the rain, heads down. He exhaled the memory. Something caught his eye. A familiar face. He narrowed his eyes. Gaby coughed pointedly, and Illya turned and re-focused on the conversation with a soft apology. 

‘It’s nice to see you two getting along,’ Gaby was saying, blowing the steam from her drink. Napoleon smiled, bashful. His cheeks dusted with pink, and Illya smiled fondly. 

‘It’s been a long time coming,’ she said, her own smile fond and happy. ‘I’m glad you pulled yourselves together enough to realise it.’ 

Illya intertwined his fingers with Napoleon’s. ‘We both have egos.’

‘That you do,’ Gaby chuckled, the sound warm over Napoleon’s half-indignant snort. 

‘When are you back in New York?’ Napoleon asked, just to change the subject. 

Gaby’s gaze flicked briefly out the window, chasing Illya’s eyeline. She sighed. ‘Tuesday, most probably, weather allowing. Besides, if this woman Waverly’s sending us to knows nothing, then this may have been a wasted trip.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be,’ Illya muttered, lifting his cup to his lips. Napoleon shot him a strange look, but said nothing. Instead, he leant into Illya’s side, warm skin against cold. Illya was always so cold. 

The hour passed too quickly, and soon they were in another taxi. Napoleon was beginning to hate them. The city moved past them at varying speeds, despite the fact the the underground clearly would’ve been traffic free. Illya drummed his fingers on the plastic interior. Napoleon gazed out of the window as Gaby made passable small talk with the driver. After what felt like an age, the taxi slowed to a stop. The street was illuminated by passing cars and overhead lamps, raindrops catching the light. It looked high end, and Napoleon sighed. 

They stepped out of the car, the doors closing quietly behind them. Napoleon pulled his coat tighter around himself. It was cold, and the wind was bitter. Rain hit his face in dozens of icy bullets. They approached the house, and the taxi switched off its lights. 

Gaby reached out with investigative magic. There was a shimmer, then she sharply recoiled. She stumbled, thrown backwards by an invisible force.

‘It's warded,' she said as she pulled herself out of Napoleon’s arms. Grateful he’d been there to catch her, she straightened her jacket, shaking the hand she’d extended as if to dispel the pain that shot through her. 'It's too strong for me to break.'

Illya paused. He approached the gate, slowly. Cautious, he extended a hand forwards. Gaby and Napoleon watched him. 

Illya straightened his arm. Gaby braced herself to catch him, but he wasn't thrown back. The air pulsed and rippled around his hand, shimmering blue and gold. His hand passed through. He exhaled, a small smile on his face.

Napoleon turned to Gaby. 'I thought you said it was warded.'

Gaby didn't take her eyes of Illya. 'It is.'

The front door of the house opened. A young woman stood in the golden light. Her skin was a deep mocha, rich against the white fabric of her coat. Her hair was long and black, a mane of curls framing her face. She was smiling. 

'I almost didn't believe it.'

Illya smiled, and stepped through the wards onto the path. 'I'll admit I was surprised myself.'

The woman laughed. She ran down the steps, and threw herself into Illya's arms. She squealed as Illya spun her. He put her down and held her in an embrace. 

She stepped back, eyes warm and fond. 'You know you're always welcome here.'

Illya smiled, and gestured to Napoleon and Gaby behind him. 'These are my friends.'

She smiled, and raised a hand. The wards opened. 'Come in. Sorry for the precautions, but,' she looked at Illya, 'you know how it is.'

Illya nodded.

'Anyway, I'm Eliza.' She took Illya by the hand and led them inside the house. It was warm. A fire burned in the old hearth in a nearby room. Everything looked expensive and Napoleon wondered when Illya had made such rich friends. The walls of the hallway were a deep mahogany, adorned with mirrors framed in gold. Under the stairs was a doorway that led to what would have been the servants’ staircase. 

Eliza led them to a room at the far end of the hallway, and pushed a large, wooden door open to reveal a spacious living room. A husky jumped at Illya's legs, barking happily. In the middle of the carpet, a little boy scribbled on paper with brightly coloured crayons. He looked up, and smiled.

'Illya!'

'Peter,' Illya bent to embrace the boy as he scrambled towards him. ‘Look how you’ve grown!’

‘Mum says I’ll be as tall as you one day!’

Illya levelled Eliza with a look over the top of Peter’s head. ‘She did, did she?’

Eliza only smiled. Peter nodded vigorously, almost head-butting Illya in the chin.

‘Peter, why don’t you play with Sally in your room?’ Eliza said. Peter nodded, and hurried to gather his things. 

‘Will Illya be staying Mum?’

Eliza shared a hesitant look with Illya. ‘We’ll see.’

Peter’s smile exploded into a beaming grin. He bounced out of the room, paper crinkling in his arms. Sally, the husky, padded along beside him, tail wagging happily. The door slammed loudly behind them. 

‘He’s looking well,’ Illya said. Eliza smiled, ever the proud parent. 

‘He’s doing well.’ She bent to collect some of Peter’s forgotten crayons. ‘He has the same knack for tantrums as his father.’

Illya snorted a laugh. ‘You brought that on yourself.’

‘That I did.’ Eliza said, shaking her head. She gestured for them to sit down. 'So, how can I help?'

'You were a part of the coven here, yes?' Gaby said, settling into a plush armchair. 

'There are many covens in London,' Eliza said. 'You'll have to be more specific.'

'You know which one.'

Eliza sighed. She sat, crossing one leg over the other. Illya sat beside her. Napoleon's eyes narrowed, and he sat in the armchair opposite. 

'I do,' Eliza said eventually, reaching up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. A golden ring glinted on her finger. 'The Warren Coven. And I was. Briefly.'

'You classify ten years as brief?' Napoleon sat back in the chair. 'Seems like a long time to me.'

'Yes, but you're human aren’t you?' It wasn’t meant as an insult, but Napoleon bristled as if it were. 'In the grand scheme of things, it really isn’t.'

'Liza,' Illya admonished, much like a parent would chastise their child. Eliza, suitably cowed, offered Napoleon a quiet apology. Satisfied, Illya turned to her. 'Can you tell us what their aims were?'

Eliza nodded. 'All I can really tell you is that they were starting to struggle as the artefacts got more powerful.'

'Those people, they were used as channels?' It was Gaby. She looked mildly horrified.

Eliza shrugged, shifting in her seat. Her thigh brushed Illya’s. ‘Look, I wasn’t there nearly long enough to be able to tell you anything. Alex was there well before me, and he’ll be in Shanghai by now.' She turned to Illya. 'Honestly, Thomas would of much more help. We all coordinate with his team anyway, and everyone reports to him regardless.'

'I’ll ask him about it.'

'He’d like to see you again, I think.' Eliza's smile was conspiratorial, and Illya rolled his eyes. Eliza’s shoulder made contact with his in a friendly shove, and Illya fought the childish urge to shove her back. 

'Is there anything else you can tell us?' Napoleon asked. His voice was sharp and cool. 

'Not really,' Eliza said. 'Stephan never trusted me enough with details, although I doubt even he knew where everything was really headed. Everything went through his father, _Phillip_ ,' she practically spat the name, 'and they shipped it from there. Thomas's best are still trying to crack the codes, and I honestly don’t think they will in time.'

'In time for what?' Gaby interjected. Eliza shared a look with Illya. He looked resigned. Gaby didn’t like it, and she especially didn’t like to be out of the loop. Napoleon looked to be in the same boat. His smile may have been polite, but his eyes spoke differently. 

'Illya,' Eliza said out of nowhere, 'be a doll and make us some tea would you?'

Illya shook his head, faintly amused. 'I'm back five minutes and you're already ordering me around.'

Eliza chuckled. 'Everything is roughly in the same place.'

Illya rolled his eyes and left.

Gaby looked between them, eyes narrowing. 'So,' she said, eventually. 'How do you know Illya?'

Eliza's answering smile was warm, adoring, and strangely sad. 'I guess you could say I grew up with him around.'

Napoleon nodded. Something like jealousy sparked in his chest. He made passable small talk while they waited for Illya, but his smile never quite reached his eyes. If Eliza noticed, she said nothing. The conversation quickly dried up, and an awkward silence descended upon them. 

'I'll go help Illya with the tea,' Eliza said. She stood in one fluid, graceful movement, and exited the room to what Napoleon assumed was the direction of the kitchen. She pushed the door open with the tips of her fingers. Illya was pouring boiling water into four mugs. She stepped into the room, footfalls making no sound on the wooden flooring. She stopped inches away from Illya, and spoke as he reached for the jar of coffee and began to spoon it in. 

'Peter misses you.'

Illya stirred the coffee in the mug. 

'I've missed you,' Eliza said, laying a warm hand on Illya's clothed forearm. ‘It’s been years, Illya.’

The spoon landed on the marble countertop with a clank. Illya sighed. ‘You know why I couldn’t come back.’

Eliza nodded. She laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. ‘You smell like him.’

Illya turned fully into her embrace, resting his head on hers. ‘Like who?’

‘The American.’ Eliza pressed her nose into his neck and inhaled. Illya shivered. ‘Does he know?’

‘No.’

Eliza nodded, her nose brushing against his skin. ‘Okay,’ she said. It was neither praise nor criticism. There was a moment’s silence. ‘Why are you really here, Illya? And don’t give me some bullshit about witches.’

His embrace tightened. ‘The key.’

Eliza pulled back sharply. ‘No.’

‘Something’s not right, Liza.’ His accent was slipping, but it didn’t matter. Not with Eliza. ‘The Westcotts...’

She knew why he couldn’t finish his sentence. Her grandfather had told her about what had happened. Nothing was ever _right_ with the Westcotts. She wouldn’t trust Charlotte as far as she could throw her. Her grip on Illya tightened. 

‘Illya, I promised my grandfather.’ She spoke next out of desperation. ‘George, he-’

‘-George is dead, Eliza.’ Illya said. His voice broke. ‘Please.’

Eliza shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. Illya held out a hand. She saw nothing but resignation in his eyes. 

‘People are dying.’ _Because of me._

‘I will not be complicit in your death, Illya!’

Illya gave her a hard look. ‘Elizabeth.’ 

'I am not a child anymore Illya, do not speak to me as if I were one!'

He held firm. 'Give me the key, Eliza.'

Eliza took a step back. She shook her head. Tears were falling down her cheeks. ‘I won’t let you do this!’ She wrestled with the volume of her voice, conscious of the strangers in her living room and her son upstairs. ‘Don’t ask me to Illya, _please._ ’ 

‘I _need_ to know!’ Illya cried. Eliza shouldered the door open, and stepped out into the hallway. Illya caught up with her as her fingers brushed the door to the living room, a hand grabbing her by the arm. 

‘ _Eliza._ ’

She looked at him. He looked afraid. She’d never seen him like this. Something softened. Her resolve faded away. Quietly, she nodded, slipping her arm out of his loosened grip and reaching up behind her neck. Her fingers unclasped a silver chain from around her neck, the pendant made of platinum and emeralds. She handed it to Illya. 

‘Leave now,’ she said. Illya nodded. Eliza turned to make her apologies to Illya’s friends. 

‘I’m suddenly feeling unwell.’ Her eyes were trained somewhere across the room. Gaby stood.

‘We could come back another time?’

‘Please don’t,’ Eliza said. She stepped out of the doorway, avoiding Illya. Napoleon and Gaby joined them in the hallway, smiling passively as Eliza opened the door for them. They stepped out into the cold. Illya hesitated at the door. 

‘Eliza-‘

‘-don’t, Illya.’ She sounded tired. ‘Don’t.’

Illya nodded. He stepped into Eliza’s embrace when she opened her arms. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know.’ She held him tighter, warm tears landing on Illya’s shoulder. ‘I love you.’

‘Just as I love you.’ Illya cupped her cheeks in both hands, and dropped a kiss to her forehead. ‘Take care of yourself, Eliza.’

‘I will.’ She found she didn’t want to let go. Her fingers reached out to straighten the lapels of his jacket. ‘It’s not supposed to be like this.’

There were footsteps on the stairs. They both turned. It was Peter.

‘You’re leaving?’

Illya nodded. He knelt to embrace the boy, holding him tightly as Peter cried. ‘I’m sorry, Peter. I have to go. Forgive me?’

Peter nodded, sniffing. ‘Will you come back?’

Illya’s chest tightened. He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Promise?’ 

Eliza wiped at her eyes. Illya nodded. 

‘Your friends are waiting.’ Eliza pulled Illya into one, last, indulgent hug. ‘Your American, don’t mess it up.’

‘I'll try not to,’ Illya said. Eliza nodded, and lifted Peter so that he settled on her hip. He buried his head in her shoulder. 

‘Goodbye, Illya.’ The door closed with a quiet click. Illya let out a breath. He turned, and stepped out into the rain. Gaby was, no doubt, in the car with the heating on full. Napoleon was walking down the path. His heart constricted painfully in his chest. The rain did a poor job of disguising Napoleon’s tears, and Illya rushed to catch up with him. 

Illya caught Napoleon's arm in a steady grip. 'She's like a sister to me, Napoleon. Nothing more, nothing less.'

Napoleon couldn't bring himself to look at Illya, to see the rejection he knew he would find there. 'Don't you want that, though?'

Something in Illya's chest began to ache. He searched Napoleon's face. All he found was hurt indifference. 'Want what?'

Napoleon shrugged. 'I don't know, a nice big house. Kids. A dog.'

'Maybe,' Illya said after a moment. 'Maybe I do want a big house and a dog. Maybe I want children.' 

Napoleon's gaze dropped. He stepped away, Illya's hand sliding down his arm. He pulled himself out of Illya's grip, chest tight and painful. Of course, he thought. He'd never be enough.

He was at the gate before Illya spoke again, 'Maybe I want a little girl, with your hair and your smile.' 

Napoleon stopped, hand on the cold metal latch of the gate. He could hear Illya walking towards him.

'Maybe I want a boy, with your eyes and your sense of mischief.'

When Napoleon turned to finally look at Illya, he had tears in his eyes. There was hope there too, and a small smile on his lips. 

'Napoleon,' Illya said, voice soft. He held a hand out to Napoleon, who stared at it for a moment before taking it with his own. 'I might want all that, but it means nothing without you.'

Illya tugged on his hand, and Napoleon went willingly. He stepped into Illya's arms, and pressed his face into Illya's neck. Overwhelming emotion threatened to crush his chest. It made his heart stutter and soar all at once.

'I want that too,' he said quietly. Illya smiled. It cracked around the edges. In his pocket, the pendant weighed heavily. 

He’d kissed Napoleon with all the emotion he felt in his heart, and they’d walked back to the car together. The taxi took them back to their hotel, and Gaby went up to her room without word. 

Napoleon gave Illya’s hand a reassuring squeeze. They were both tired. Napoleon was peeling himself out of his wet clothes as soon as the door opened. Illya followed at a less hurried pace, and flopped rather ungracefully onto the bed as Napoleon busied himself with a hot shower. He drifted in his own thoughts as he waited, and held Napoleon close to him when the human slid into bed beside him, a beacon of warmth next to his cold body. They were silent for a long time, but Illya could tell Napoleon had something on his mind.

‘You argued,’ he said eventually, head lying on Illya’s chest. He felt Illya’s inhalation.

‘Yes.’

Napoleon shifted so that he could look at Illya. ‘What about?’

Illya hesitated. Eventually, he sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Illya-‘

‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ was Illya’s curt reply. Any hurt Napoleon felt was soothed by the wetness of emotion in Illya’s voice. Instead of pressing, he nodded, and pressed his lips over Illya’s heart. He settled down to sleep, and held Illya closer than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Drop me a comment and tell me what you think!


End file.
